Take it easy, take it easy.
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels
Drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can.
Don’t even try to understand.
Just find a place to make your stand.
And take it easy.

—The Eagles, lyrics; Take it Easy
____________________________

It’s always the same. The anticipated event approaches. At long last, the day arrives. The festivities begin. Savored as they unfold. And then, all too soon, they’re over. I’ve just returned from six days on the road, my last excursion for the summer. I’m quite grumpy, and don’t want to be back. So on this expedited post, I’ll share a few general reflections and fill in some space with pictures.

We have a lot to learn, in fast paced PA. About chilling, relaxing, and just letting it all rest for a day or two. It wouldn’t hurt us, not to be rushing around like madmen through each minute of each day. Finishing this project post haste, so we can start the next one. And so on, ad infinitum.

It’s been awhile since I was exposed to southern culture. I lived it a few years, back in the early 1990s while attending Bob Jones in Greenville, SC. But since then, decades of running the northern/eastern rat race got to me. I’m a full fledged clock-watching, totally scheduled northern boy.

On Friday afternoon, I set off for West Virginia and the home of my friends, Dominic and Jamie. They were hosting their annual great July 4th party the next day. I arrived by mid-afternoon, and hung out with Dominic. We lazed around his pool, ran a few errands, got stuff together for the next day’s big bash.

They have a little suite in the basement. Bed, bath, everything one needs to stay a few days. Dominic grilled some fine steaks that night, and we retired to rest up for the big bash the next day.

Saturday dawned, beautiful, bright and clear. Perfect day for a celebration. We ambled about, prepping everything. Setting out food and plates and coolers full of every imaginable drink. People would arrive at 2. The party would last until the fireworks around eleven.

Jamie and Dominic before the party.

And promptly at two, the guests began to trickle in. Friends, coworkers, friends of friends. We feasted on BBQd pork, coleslaw, chips, and a vast array of other delicious dishes. Then sat around the pool, threw darts in the garage, and generally just laid back. I was more laid back than I have been for years. Utterly, and I mean totally relaxed. Even allowed myself to be coaxed into playing a few games of horse shoes. I had never played before. And it showed, against some of those WV hustlers. But I scored a point or two, salvaging a tiny shred of honor. My team lost both games.

Some friends who had attended last year’s party didn’t make it this time. I missed them.

Around ten, Dominic and a few of his buddies unveiled some long, hefty dangerous-looking tubes. Fireworks. Unlike any I’d ever seen in PA. The crowd hung back a safe distance as the boys fumbled with lighters. The flickering flame, a sharp hiss, increasing to a high scream, and off they soared, straight into the skies at least a few hundred feet, before exploding into fiery colorful shreds. I don’t know where Dominic and the boys got those fireworks, or what exactly was in them. But in PA, they would have been immediately arrested after lighting even one.

I retired around midnight, still utterly relaxed, and fell asleep in minutes.

The next day around mid morning, after a good southern breakfast of eggs and bacon, I took my leave. Thanked my hosts for the great experience, and departed for Kentucky. My rented Dodge Charger pulsed along through the Sunday traffic on the WV back roads. Eventually I reached the Interstate and headed south and west.

On Monday, I putzed around eastern Kentucky, ending up in Lexington for the night. Horse country. Lexington is surrounded by hundreds of tidy, fenced horse farms. Huge ornate barns, more elaborate than the owners’ houses. With the economy, the horse business is hurting as well, I gathered from reading the local newspapers and from a few conversations around the area.

On Tuesday, family members would gather at the Blue Lick Battlefield State Resort Park in the Mays Lick, KY area. The site of the last Revolutionary War battle. My nephew John got the idea for the reunion a few months ago. He reserved rooms, took care of all the logistics. Invited everyone to come. Not all of us would make it. Even my parents had left their home in Mays Lick to spend the summer in Aylmer. So they wouldn’t be there.

But we had another reason for gathering at this particular time.

In January of this year, after a battery of tests and scans, my oldest brother Joseph was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a rare form of cancerous blood disease. Once you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It will never leave. You’ll deal with it the rest of your life. Most people who get it develop some sort of program and live relatively normal life spans. Some get wiped out in short order and die.

After his initial diagnosis, Joseph and his wife Iva headed to Mexico for treatment. One particular clinic specializes in cancer treatments, with an emphasis on natural solutions, and some chemo. The treatments seem effective. He’s surviving well, just tires easily. Has to watch himself, not overdo things. Because of his situation, his family decided to get together this summer in his honor.

Slowly we trickled in, those of us who came. And we came from all around. My niece Janice from Phoenix traveled the longest distance. Steve and Wilma Wagler from PA. Jesse and Lynda Wagler from Abbeville, SC. Lester and Rachel Yutzy from Hutchison, KS. Ray and Maggie Marner from Due West, SC. A vast assortment of nieces and nephews. And of course, most of Joseph and Iva’s children, from various Midwestern states.

We’re graying now, the siblings, and no longer young. Nieces and nephews who were always underfoot as squalling children now amble about, full grown adults, some of them married with their own families. It seems strange. Rightfully, time should be frozen somewhere, and we all should remain as we were ten, twenty years ago. But it just doesn’t work that way. Sometimes it seems like I’m dreaming, and need to pinch myself to wake up.

The park has a few cabins and a sprawling comfortable lodge. Most of us booked rooms at the lodge for the two day, two night stay. We greeted each other familiarly, as if we’d last seen each other yesterday. We settled in our rooms and gathered at the main pavilion, which John had also reserved for two days. Coolers full of drinks and baskets and boxes of food were soon strewn about. We sat around and visited as the women laid out the late afternoon meal.

Joseph looked and seemed normal. Just as I’d always remembered him. He is very upbeat about his condition. Determined to do all he can to live and enjoy life. And watch his grandchildren grow.

He grumbled a good bit about my perspectives in the Wicked Pony story. He claimed that I have a very vivid imagination. That I tend to embellish my stories. I laughed and cited artistic license.

At five o’clock, the meal was served. Hot dogs, salad and numerous side dishes. For dessert, homemade, hand-cranked ice cream.

After supper, as dusk settled late, we sat around a camp fire and just hung out. Caught up with the latest news and gossip. There was a minor uproar earlier when one of my uppity nephews slyly accused me of inventing a word in last week’s blog. Ostensively, he said, was not a word. He even drew support from a few other loafers who lounged about, gleefully stirring the flames of dissension. Of course, I was out-raged and defended myself rather stridently. The issue was resolved only after I googled the word on my Iphone and presented the proof to my accusers. So I successfully beat back that little attack. Make up words indeed. Can’t have my reputation besmirched like that.

And that was the start of two lazy, laid back relaxing days. We just chilled. Relaxed. No schedules whatsoever, except for the five o’clock evening meals. Otherwise, everyone was on their own.

Some hiked. Some swam in the pool. Or played mini golf. We staged mock duels with old style flintlock cap pistols purchased at the camp store. A referee carefully counted the step-off, then proclaimed the winner. We visited the graves of Revolutionary War soldiers who had died on that site. We toured the park museum.

I never met any moonshiners, although I chatted with several people who claimed to have contacts. I have no doubt they did.

We brewed strong pitch-black cowboy coffee late at night and sipped countless cups. Retold old stories. Roared at the old jokes. Both the stories and the jokes somehow always grow more vivid and more detailed with each retelling.

On the second night, sisters Dorothy and Janice sang the songs they used to sing as teenagers. Dorothy strummed her guitar and Janice sang harmony as they played the old songs. In the darkness and the flickering shadows of the campfire, they looked exactly as they did twenty years ago, and it took me back. Two little girls, my nieces, singing their hearts out.

We hung out late the last night, then straggled off to bed. And then, on Thursday morning, it was over. Everyone took off for their own homes, returned to their own busy lives.

It was an outstanding gathering, one of the most relaxing in my memory. Only one small problem. Two days wasn’t long enough. Next year we’ll make it three.

John, Dort, Rachel and others

Jesse and Lester

Jesse and Rachel

Me and my Dodge Charger

Breakfast of scrapple, bacon, eggs.

Janice and Ira

Dueling: Lester and Ira

Dueling: Glen and Ira

Firing: Glen and Ira

Happy Grandpa Jess presenting Ira a SC walking stick

John, Lester (standing), Maggie, Joseph, Rachel

Assortment of nephews and nieces

From rear: Nancy Ann, Joseph, Iva, Rachel, Ray J.

Glen brewing Cowboy coffee

Siblings: Rachel, Jesse, Steve, Ira, Maggie

The entire group (minus Joseph)
Less than half of the extended family attended.

Dorothy, Rhoda, Janice. Sisters singing

Politicians are like diapers. They both need changing regularly and for the
same reason.
—Author Unknown

There ought to be one day – just one – when there is open season on senators.
—Will Rogers
___________

It’s July. The summer hums along. Independence Day. All the rah rah celebrations. Cookouts. Fireworks. Great puffery and proclamations from countless elected buffoons lauding our freedoms and liberties, even as they work tirelessly to destroy them.

On Independence Day, I plan to hang out with the same group as last year. My friend Dominic Haskin in West Virginia. This year, though, he is forgoing the pig roast. He’s serving normal stuff, like burgers and hot dogs and all the fixings.

It’s that way all across the land, I imagine. A little more subdued this year. What with the downturn in the economy and all the fears of layoffs and uncertainty about the future. Can’t blame folks for being skittish. I’ve got only myself to support. If I had a large family, I’d be skittish too. I’m more than half freaked out the way it is.

We’re a different country than we were twelve short months ago, or even six. Vastly different. And we’re picking up speed as the cliff’s edge looms.

Independence Day is morphing into Dependence Day.

Since the day King Obama ascended the throne and stretched out his mighty hand, our government has leeched its vile life-draining tentacles onto the throats of private businesses. Set out to destroy capitalism. Trillions of dollars created out of thin air. Czars for this and Czars for that, more offices being created each week. Spend our way to prosperity, even though it’s never worked, in all of history. And never will. Stimulus funds thrown about like so much graffiti. Bailouts of thug bankers, car companies. Too big to fail. GM now stands for Government Motors. (Dodge as well. Big Blue is shamed.) Soon we’ll all be driving rickety little carts on wheels, the green cars Obama envisions. Early this week, Obama lectured us about the light bulbs we use. It boggles the mind. The President of the United States, lecturing us about light bulbs.

And last week, our esteemed Congress passed Cap and Trade, ostensively to halt global warming. In reality, to exert more control, dictate our lives to the nth degree. And to raise taxes. Probably the most abominable piece of legislation ever produced in this country. At least until the new health care laws hit us later this year.

And right on cue this week, the vile vicious Al Franken was certified as Minnesota’s new Senator. As I predicted last November. If you live in Minnesota, get out. (I thought the Will Rogers quote above was particularly applicable in your state.)

The Nanny state engulfs us. It’s a mess. Nothing good can possibly come from it. And we ain’t seen nothing yet.

That’s my rant for this Fourth of July. I try to avoid ranting, and have been doing well resisting the occasional urge to do so. But sometimes it just can’t be helped.

After the weekend, I’m heading to Kentucky to spend a few days with family. Then home by late week. On Monday, I have a free day to meander. Not sure where I’ll go or what I’ll do. Maybe head into the Kentucky backwoods, and out again. If the moon-shiners don’t get me. Maybe I could learn their trade to help me through the coming hard times. Always a good market for liquid corn, or so I hear. Although to be truthful, the stuff I’ve sampled (years ago, of course) from a Mason jar was clear as water and tasted more like kerosene than anything else. I have no doubt it would burn as lamp fuel. Which of course would be its stated purpose if I were ever caught with any.

On the home front, well, it’s summer. I’m rolling along, taking in life’s little adventures, such as they are. One Saturday a few weeks ago, I emerged from Amelia’s, my favorite Bent and Dent store. Nothing more on my mind than running a few errands, perhaps hanging out for coffee with some friends that afternoon. As I boarded Big Blue, a tired-looking lady approached me, smiling hesitantly, making eye contact. Tall, pretty, about my age.

“Do you want to do your good deed for the day?” She asked. Still smiling hesitantly.

“What’s that?” I replied.

“My car won’t start,” she answered. “I need a jump.”

“Ahhh, I won’t be able to help,” I replied regretfully. “I’d sure like to. But I don’t have any jumper cables.”

She looked crestfallen. “My husband will have to drive over an hour to get here,” she said. “It would really be nice if someone could jumpstart my car.”

“Keep trying,” I said. “Someone around here’s got to have some cables.” I drove away. I felt bad. Guilty, even. I drive a big mean 4-wheel drive truck. You’d think there would be jumper cables in it somewhere. But no. I’d let her down.

It wouldn’t happen again. A few weeks later, while at a local hardware store, I bought the longest toughest pair of jumper cables they had in stock. Sixteen feet long, heavy 4 gauge. I’m ready for the next damsel in distress.

The summer’s brought its changes too. Lancaster for many decades published a morning paper (Intelligencer-Journal) and a late afternoon paper (New Era). Both pretty strange names for newspapers, and both were owned and published by the same company. The Intell was liberal, the New Era conservative. I think their readership was roughly the same.

The two newspapers have fallen on hard times, which has been happening a lot to newspapers lately. Across the country and the world. Advertising revenues tanked, along with the economy. Many proclaim the imminent end of printed news. Every-thing’s on the web now. So this week, after who knows how many decades of separate existence, the two local newspapers combined. The papers and the names. It’s now a morning edition. Which irritates me. I was a subscriber to the New Era, the afternoon edition.

It’s been a summer of passings, too, of some famous and infamous people.

Mr. George Tiller, the Butcher of Kansas, was sent to meet his Maker as he sat in church about a month ago. I can’t imagine what a man who performs late term abortions was doing, sitting in a church pew, but he was. A mentally deranged man, quickly labeled a “right wing terrorist” by the media, shot Mr. Tiller and he died shortly thereafter.

Mr. Tiller was directly responsible for the murders of thousands upon thousands of fully formed babies. He was among the few persons in this nation whose primary practice was late term abortions. Where all but the baby’s head is extracted from the womb, then the baby’s brains are skewered and sucked out with a vacuum. Murderous. Brutal. Barbaric.

Perhaps Mr. Tiller is now being confronted and accused by the thousands he slew. I’m not sure how that works. But I won’t judge. Perhaps he had time before he died to repent and cry out for the blood that even at that late moment would have cleansed even him of the terrible stains of innocent blood that drenched his soul.

I don’t know if most people will remember where they were when they heard Michael Jackson died, but I will. I was at the gym, winding down on the treadmill. Watching the captioned newsflashes on TV. And then it flickered across the screen. LA Times: Michael Jackson is dead.

I’ve never been much of a fan of Jackson’s. Like most people, I considered him pretty much a loon. But still, the news jolted me. He’s been around so long, you don’t expect him to just up and die. At fifty years old. Back in the late 1980s, early 1990s, the man cranked out some half decent music. And few could match his dancing skills.

But after his original success, somehow, something went dreadfully wrong. I don’t think he had many happy moments. He lived in la la land. And we were witness to the rather horrifying spectacle of seeing a black man carved into something resembling a white woman.

I may have seen Farah Fawcett a few times on reruns of Charlie’s Angels. During the show’s heyday, I didn’t watch TV because I was Amish. Even so, I knew who she was from reading magazines and newspapers. Along with about a hundred million other young men, I thought Farah Fawcett was a vision of perfection, probably about the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

She kind of disappeared after that show, played a few movie roles now and then. The tabloids kept us apprised of the latest gossip about her stormy relationship with Ryan O’Neil. As the years passed, I thought she aged about as gracefully as any movie star, except perhaps Katherine Hepburn, who was in a class of her own. Farah died of cancer on the same day Michael Jackson passed away. She was sixty-two years old. The news of her death was completely overshadowed by his.

And lastly, Billy Mays, the loud obnoxious hawker of all things on late night TV. I would not have wished him ill, but I will NOT miss his grating shout, “BILLY MAYS HERE…” Every time I heard even the first syllable, I dove for the remote to switch channels or hit the Mute button. I could not stand the man.

And finally, an update on Anne Marie. About a month ago, she had a regularly scheduled MRI scan. Her Lancaster doctor spoke with her a week or so later and told her he sees growth where the tumor had been. And that it likely was returning. He recommended radiation treatment immediately.

Paul called me with the news that night. It was a heavy moment. I listened, not knowing quite what to say. So I said little. That Sunday night, I stopped by as usual, and we laughed and chatted like we always do. One of my jobs, Anne Marie has proclaimed, is to bring laughter to their house. Even so, it was a somber time as we talked about what the near future might bring.

The next day, a Monday, they traveled down to Johns Hopkins with the test results. Their JH doctor reviewed them and announced quite a different diagnosis. He saw scar tissue, he said, but no new tumor growth. He did not recommend radiation or any other treatment, other than the natural treatment Anne Marie already was doing. He complimented her on her quality of life.

Paul and Anne Marie were stunned and ecstatic. Almost disbelieving of the good news. They called me that night, and we whooped and hollered. I couldn’t believe it either. Finally, something positive.

She is not out of the woods by any means, and may never be. Her JH doctor told her the tumor might return at any time, for no discernible reason, even after years and years of dormancy. They’ll take that. As they would have accepted the first diagnosis. As they’ll take and savor each day the Lord grants them together.